Many Meetings
by jennii.b
Summary: How magical is CS Lewis's world of Narnia to me... and how much more so with the added help of the Gaelic Faerie folk? Not all followers of Aslan are immediately taken with these newcomers, although Lucy's faith, Edward's true repentance, and the conscience and bravery and trust of Susan & Peter will cause a change of heart.
1. Many Meetings

She walked to them, her footsteps as light as all woodland creatures' in the snow. Hidden limbs and dips and stones beneath the white covering the land could betray-easily-one whose purpose would be best kept secret. Still she couldn't mask the scent that had He Beaver lifting his nose to the air, even as the wind blew her scent away. And she couldn't blame him for the wariness that followed.

She'd listened long enough, heard all she cared to hear.

"I thought I'd find you lying down on the job," she said to the fox. She moved forward, into the circle. Knelt between him and Beaver. Both animals looked up at her with respect. Her human-like form was dark and mysterious in the night. She snuggled the fox into her lap and reached to caress Mr. Beaver's fur. Her voice was firm and disapproving as she entered the light of their fire. Peter noticed the form of her, clad in leather leggings and a dark tunic like a wrapped jacket with no collar. Underneath, at the veed neckline, glinted some softer material-a satin or silk that seemed gold in the dimness. Her hair was longer than her shoulders, brushing halfway down her back, with waves and loose curls. It was dark, a rich brown that seemed like black in the night except where it was highlighted by the fire and gleamed gold. Her boots were more modern, much like English riding boots, but made of softer stuff. A cloak billowed behind her shoulders and she wrapped it round her as she held the smaller animal.

"My lady, I assure you I was-"

"Deeply committed to the cause, I would guess," she interrupted.

He looked pleased. "I'll be off now. I'm gathering troops."

"I know. And I am indebted to you. Be safe and be wary. You'll not fare well if they catch you again this night. I'll see what I can do about making your claim appear true." She kissed his nose and let him limp into the black outside the circle of warmth. She turned to the pair of animals watching her. "If they want to leave then they must be allowed to leave, He Beaver," she said.

Beaver was shaking his head. It was a motion she echoed. Mrs. Beaver caught her other hand in her paws. This stranger didn't want to be persuaded, however.

"They aren't the ones," she said simply in that soft, flat voice of hers. The accent was strange to Peter's ears. He ducked his head as the thought brought an entirely inappropriate smile. Of all things for him to find incongruous.

"Two sons of Adam and two daughters of Eve and these aren't the ones?" Beaver chided.

"I see two daughters and but one son."

"The brother-" Mrs. Beaver began. She cut her off, this strangely hypnotic form. Her voice was not soft now, but cutting in its disappointment.

"Is imprisoned by the White Witch. And his elder," here she nodded at Peter, "thinks only to get him out and get him home."

"As would you, if you had a brother to protect," Peter broke in.

"I would seek to do what is right, not just right for myself."

"If the boy dies at her hands then it's not right for any of us, dearie," Mrs. Beaver told her in tones meant to subdue.

"And this man, this is the king you would choose, one who would use your people for his own ends and then leave you?"

"Ganna," Beaver started. He took a deep breath and started again. And still he shook his little brown head even as she continued to rub her hand through the thick fur. "Ganna, no one can see the end clearly. Look into your heart and trust what is there."

"I see nothing."

Mrs. Beaver sighed a heavy sigh. "Then that is your loss. And no one else's fault."

The young woman nodded. "I know that," she told the animal still stroking her paws over her right hand.

"Hope is fragile," she told the girl, this Ganna. To which she nodded, her hair falling forward. She looked less intimidating with it lying beside her smooth cheek. And the haunted expression in her eyes made Peter's heart ache for her. She was probably no older than Susan. Mrs. Beaver gave her one last pat on the hand. "It is all the more precious for all that." She smiled kindly. "Can you stay? It would ease your soul, I think. And certainly make our journey easier."

Ganna shook her head. "I meant not even to let you know that I was here, but He Beaver caught a hint of my scent and I wanted him not to worry. And I wanted to appease my own guilt concerning Fox. He is dear to me, despite his resemblance to cousins of a meaner sort. I have far still to go tonight. And now I shall throw my path a bit to plant a few suspicious prints and scents."

She rose, brushing the back of her wrap and throwing it again behind her shoulders. In doing so the jewels of the hilt of her hunting knife and the scabbard were revealed for the first time. Peter's gaze was brought back to her face as she bowed to him.

"If I was wrong, I apologize."

"For calling me a coward or implying that I am unconcerned about the plights of this land? Or for the idea that I play on the hopes and beliefs and traditions of another culture to get what I want?"

She smiled a tight smile and her chin came up. "For anything I was wrong about, should I be proved wrong."

He rose as well, and extended his hand around the side of the fire. "A pleasure to meet you, I'm sure," he said sarcastically.

She lifted an eyebrow and stared at his hand. Lucy was already whispering, "You shake it," in light of her past experience with Narnians.

"I know, little imp," Ganna smiled down at the girl, wrinkling her nose. "I'm just not sure I want to." Lucy giggled. Peter's gut knotted even more tightly. Susan thought it all in bad taste. But then, she wasn't on the verge of manhood, on the verge of responsibilities more daunting than any ever faced before, wasn't standing in Peter's shoes. She had no way of seeing through his eyes the transformation wrought on the stranger's face by that secret smile, that sparkle of mischief. Ganna took the hand, still looking down at Lucy. She didn't shake, didn't squeeze. She merely laid her hand in his and absorbed the warmth and untested strength. And, for the first time in long years, wondered at her own first impression. Her expression had become serious again as she met his eyes. He nodded once, his own face stern now, and she turned and left.


	2. Dance the Edge

"Who was she?" Lucy asked in hushed tones.

Beaver shook his head. "None can say for certain. She's been raised close by Aslan, but is not always in his company. She's on our side, though. Or, more appropriately, she's on the side of the trees that aren't dark and the rocks that aren't too far gone and the earth that longs to grow good things. And the spirits of the things that live in the woods and rocks and earth."

"That's non-sense," Susan said, pouting a bit. "She seemed quite spoiled and ill-mannered to me."

"That follows, my dear," Mrs. Beaver put in. "She is rather spoiled. And her manners are what she's made them. Comes from having been an orphan, if one believes that story."

"What other tales can we choose from?" Peter asked.

"Some say she's a princess enchanted. Or an enchantress herself-a spell weaver brought here for protection. Some say she's otherworldly-part sprite or some such thing. Some say, too, that she was brought forth by the elves from the land. Her ears aren't quite the part for that, though, if you ask me."

"Does she fight in battles?" Lucy asked. "She had a sword and a knife."

"If she does she's as like as not to use a bow. And there's no telling where she'll go next. She'll report tonight to Aslan-she travels fast and silent. After that, who's to know?"

"She doesn't like me," Peter said.

"She's not had an easy road, Son of Adam. She comes slow to trust, slow to change. Her faith in mankind is weak. And she's forgotten how to be open to hope. Too many times she's seen it fail her."

"How old is she? I thought her quite young."

"Yes, Peter. But that doesn't make her less able to command an army or-"

"No, she seems quite capable of anything to me," he admitted.

"Don't let it sting. She was wrong to speak so." This from Mrs. Beaver.

"But don't tell her that," Mr. Beaver laughed.

"I did so, just then!" Mrs. Beaver cried. "And the child didn't turn me into a toad or skin me or call down the wrath of the heavens. Shush now, and speak no more ill of her. It's high time we were all abed anyway."

Tired as he was, when Peter lay down he couldn't stop worrying. Things had gone amuck since his mother had placed his brother and sisters in his charge. Not a week away from her and they were in the middle of a strange land inside an old wardrobe hoping against hope to rescue their brother from an evil witch with the help of a lion and other talking animals. Whose side in a civil war he saw and agreed with.

Two nights later he saw her again. He couldn't sleep. Aslan had made things aright in regards to Edmund and they were in some strange holding pattern. The great King had spent the day pointing out where he should place troops and what orders he should give in any given situation. The camp had been moved and settled again and now was quiet. Peter slipped out of the tent he shared with his brother and stood in the night air. He wore only his undertunic and breeches. Thinking to go for a walk to clear his mind he reached back inside for his boots and pulled them on in the dark, damp night. Briefly he considered grabbing his cloak, but he opted to go without it. If he became cold he could just return to the pavilion-and probably sleep better for it. So he wandered in this new land of summer. For a time he walked, looking without seeing, and let the night air flow over him. He went away from the hub where sounds still rang out-an occasional laugh or shout and the clangs of armor and such. His steps took him again to the crest to look down toward the sea. His footsteps weren't quiet and his woodcraft lacked practice. Still, Ganna didn't hear him until he'd nearly stepped out over her. She'd come to sit on a ledge overlooking the vista he'd been shown by Aslan that afternoon. The rocks cradled her, the tall grass camouflaged her, until he was nearly on her.

"Excuse me," he said softly when she jerked. Then he, too, came fully into the moment and saw her. Gone were the traces and armor of the day before. Gone was the weapons belt and the cloak and the warrior's demeanor. Replacing the tough tunic and breeches and boots was something filmy and whimsical. It made him think of a child's bedtime poem or some Irish lullaby. She'd braced herself as she turned. In truth, she'd done some inner cursing of herself for having let herself be found in a spot from which there was no easy escape. As she turned and tucked her legs beneath her he reached out, crouching, to offer her a hand.

Manners dictated she take it before she remembered that she'd been avoiding him.

"What were you doing down there?" he asked. The moon was full-and bright enough to read his expression of wonder and concern.

"Dangling my feet in the air. It's been long since any of us could walk barefoot in the grass." She gathered the loose, flowing skirts of sheerest silk and stepped up onto more solid ground. He held her hand and backed a few steps away from the ledge.

Her gown was one after the design of her mother's people. It was the most basic of sheaths-raw silk covered with two thinner, lighter layers overtop. The under dress had straps so thin they could barely be seen in the dark. It was of a pale silver and cut squarely below her collar bone, revealing nothing it shouldn't, before falling straight to pool at the tops of her feet. In the back the material began just below her shoulder blades. The sheer overlay hung in four panels-each a darker hue of blue, the darkest of which was only that shade of winter sky. Two in the front covered her only as much as the dress itself. The two in back were higher, attached to the high point of the straps and draped across the tops of her shoulders. Her hair had been gathered in a wreath of some vine. Around her neck was a chain forged from links of silver and gold and pewter and copper. Hanging from these-low, low on the dress-were several heavy charms. He would ask about them later and learn much about her ways and her thoughts and her hopes and dreams and fears. For now he simply tried to breathe.

He realized he had trapped her hand only when she moved to pull it away. He let it slip from his grasp.

"Have you been waiting here to apologize to me?" he asked.

She smiled a wicked smile. "For what? I've said nothing new to offend or impugn you."

"Just that I was not fit to be king."

Her face grew serious. "I shouldn't have said that. I doubt that any man is fit to be what we think a king should be. You took up this yoke with reservations. I should have respected your stance."

"And now?"

She shrugged and turned away to stare at the ocean. She loved the sound that carried here.

He moved to stand behind her. "What makes you hesitate?"

She glanced back over her shoulder at him. He was close enough for her to see the way the wind moved his golden hair. To appreciate both the maturity and the youthful promise in his face.

"Are you still so sure that I can be of no use to your land?"

"It isn't my land," she told him, meeting his eyes. "It's yours."

"I only just arrived."

"And I was never meant to be here." She smiled at him. Then she raised her arms over her head and spun gracefully away from him, dancing on the edge of the cliff. It had him sucking in his breath and reaching for her again. She finished with an elaborate curtsy, bowing low with one long, smooth leg extended in front of her.

"How can you do that?"

"I'm not of this land, either," she told him. "I'm the product of an allegiance between elves and faeries. And I was sent here to be kept safe when my mother died and the world outside went to war."

"You know about the war in England?"

"I know about the Americans being sent to fight battles in places their families can't pronounce. I know about Irish and Scottish going to the mainland and coming home only to be laid in the ground. And about French digging in to stand their ground in colonies around the world. And about Canadians placing their feet where their fathers and grandfathers placed theirs in the last war. England is under siege. Germany would rather fight to the death than retreat this time. There will be no quick end. So much, so many, will be lost."

"In a year I'll be able to join."

"You choose to do so?"

"To you it may be a newspaper article with a map and a list of names. It is my neighborhood, my schoolmates and teachers and family. How can I not volunteer when someone already fights to keep me safe?"

She nodded.

"Not to say that I'm not terrified," he laughed self-depreciatingly. She reached up to cup his cheek.

"Fear isn't a weakness."

His hand came up to cover hers as their eyes linked again. "I have to survive this one first."

She nodded. "They need, desperately, for you to survive. This one, plus your own if you must go back for it."

"That's a bridge I'll cross when I have to. Like I said, I just turned seventeen, so Narnia can have me with no reservations for ten more months." His face eased closer to hers. "Am I forgiven?" he asked.

"For what?"

"For disappointing you."

She smiled up at him, then rose to her tiptoes to kiss his other cheek. "It is I who felt any disappointment. You and Edmund were wonderful." She dropped her hand, pulling his with her as she turned to where the stars were rising in the darkness over the woods. "You were willing to send them back and stay alone to help us. He insisted that he help repay his rescue. He couldn't imagine leaving us in the lurch. And Susan stepped up. Lucy has been for us since the beginning. I think my disappointment was unfounded. Again I beg your forgiveness."

He rested his chin beside her temple, wrapping his free hand around her waist. It seemed easy and natural to pull her closer. It seemed easy and natural to lean back and let him be the strong one.

"I find no fault to beg forgiveness, so there's no reason to ask or grant it." They stood like that for a long time. None of the stars looked familiar and he asked about them. It led to a discussion of the myths and legends of this land. Which led to an explanation of the talismans she wore. They ended up against a thick tree, him braced against the trunk with her cradled between his legs. It was there that the wood sprites found them, there that they gave word of Aslan's demise.


	3. Fear Lies

And so he prepared for battle alone as well. His sisters were still afield, a worry to gnaw at his gut. And these massed troops looked to him to find the right way to go on without their leader. He bore the burden heavily, feeling the weight of his inexperience and tender years. Edmund braced him. Ganna, whom he would have looked to for affirmation, had made her way to the main forces of the centaurs. He had not the time to seek her out and felt foolish when he considered having her sent for.

Not until later that day, when the places for attack and retreat had been marked out and filled by armies for a free Narnia, did she again come to stand beside him. Barius was on his left and they stood surveying the forces of the witch aligning opposite the field. It made his stomach sink. He looked up to Edmund and the forces high atop the rocks. He swiveled to take in those at his back, stretching on as far as the eye could see. He signaled for the griffin to fly over and gather what he could of the enemy's plan. As he turned back to the front she caught his eye. Her mount was, as his, a unicorn. Hers was a different breed, squatter and heavier and covered with the long coat of the northern watches. The dark brown utilitarian shape of the beast contrasted with the pure white sleekness of his own. Even the horn that marked it's brow seemed less magical and more pedestrian. She was in the light armor of the entaurs, her hair drawn back from her face to trail down the plate of armor at her back.

They didn't speak. She shifted to see as much as she could see and even as she did so, even as they all did so, the griffin lighted before them.

"They are numbered far greater than our own troops, and far more fierce than expected," he reported.

Peter nodded and the beast leapt back into the sky to rejoin his kind for their volley.

Peter, knighted by Aslan and bound to be crowned High King, turned to the centaur at his side.

"Will you follow me?"

"To the death," Barius told him sincerely.

"You are our king," Ganna said softly beside him. That was the only explanation necessary when it mattered. They would follow him because he was their king. Their eyes met only very briefly and he raised his sword to lead the charge.

They took advantage of a brief respite, leaning - - gasping - - against their mounts as fewer of the enemy sullied forth. As their enemy regrouped.

"Are you afraid?" She looked up at him with her clear, shining eyes. Eyes that haunted him at night when he tried to sleep. Eyes that beckoned him during the daylight hours.

He was silent - - thoughtful - - for a long span of many heartbeats.

"Yes," he admitted. "Are you?" he asked her carefully after some contemplation.

"Yes," she answered decisively and without hesitation. "But only when you're not with me."

And he laughed at her as he turned away to stare down the enemy amassing before them. It lacked humor and gusto. And made up for it in true amusement. She meant it. She hadn't teased or toyed with him. She found comfort in standing beside him-here where all things might end.

And he loved her for it.

They were swept apart in the battle. Ever she looked for him, strove to keep him in her sight. After the retreat, when his mount was shot from beneath him, she lost sight for precious minutes. Frantic, finally she spotted him. And her blood ran cold. He was being pursued by the witch. Ganna watched as Jadis turned Barius to stone, turned a cheetah and a rhinoceros. Even as she fought her way to him, even as her own mount was slashed wickedly and went down, she saw Edmund approach unseen and bring his sword down on the witch's wand. The scream torn from Ganna's heart was echoed by a sudden pain in her own side as the false queen of Narnia drove her blade into the younger son of Adam and went for his brother again.


	4. Hope Stands

Quiet had been restored to the valley where the battle had been fought. Peter, well and whole, led the others to Edmund's side and watched as Lucy's cordial restored him to health. Before he could fully be brought around Aslan had the young girl move on, had her seek out the others who had been maimed or injured as he breathed new life on those who had been transformed by the evil cunning of the witch's wand. For hours they worked until he at last was brought to a hastily erected pavilion. Here he lay down beside one he loved.

"Have the golden Daughter of Eve brought here to me," he ordered. Barius, again in breathing form, stood guard and watched impatiently as the girl was sought and then as she hurried across the plain.

Lucy was accompanied by Peter, who reached out to shake Barius's hand as he approached. "Has Aslan taken hurt?" he asked the centaur.

Barius shook his head, his face obviously set against any show of emotion that might be considered weakness. Instead of speaking he drew aside the flap and motioned them in.

It was dim inside, and quiet. Only Aslan seemed to move, lifting his head as they approached.

"Have you done what you could for your subjects, Queen Lucy?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes, Aslan. I think that there are not any left to heal. I have walked and climbed and some were brought to me. And the winged creatures were great help in seeking out those who needed the serum."

He nodded his great head. "Have you any more of the nectar left?" he asked. His voice seemed hopeful and yet doubtful.

"There cannot be much-it feels as though it is almost empty."

"I ask you to share what you can," he said. He pushed himself up so that he was sitting on his haunches. In doing so he revealed the form of the one he'd been keeping warm. Peter swallowed hard and sank to his knees. Tears were in his eyes as he lifted Ganna's head to his lap, much like he had his own brother's only hours before.

"Lucy-" he whispered, pain in his voice. He was begging for more than that his sister to move quickly. His hands brushed the matted hair from the still face as the little girl crouched beside the pale form. Aslan laid his velveted paw on the wound at her hip as Lucy tilted the bottle to her lips. There she held it, willing any residue left to be enough. When she deemed the flask empty she sat back on her heels, her small hands reaching out to bury in Aslan's fur.

Peter cried then, unable to hold back the tears any longer. They burst out as he lowered his brow to hers and prayed for her to open her eyes. It seemed unfair to him that he should have come through this only to lose her. For he knew in his heart that he'd never be the same if she weren't for him.

Suddenly her chest heaved. Her hand flailed and he caught it, bringing it to his lips even as she opened her eyes.

"Edmund!" she gasped, making to sit up before Aslan's heavy paw prevented her from moving. She reached up to cup Peter's cheek. "He-"

Peter could barely talk. The tears had stopped, but still his chest and throat were tight. "He is fine. Lucy's cordial was his salvation, as well as yours."

She nodded and eased up a bit; Peter lifted her so that she was reclining against his knees, her head beneath his beating heart.

"He saved you, saved us all," Ganna said. "He saw more clearly than we did."

"You screamed his name," Peter told her.

She nodded. "The witch pierced his side. I was trying to get to you. He had the same thought and it cost him."

"It cost you both."

"I wouldn't have thought to go for her wand. I wanted to strike her down," Ganna admitted, looking up at Aslan and reaching for his mane.

His voice was an affectionate growl as he again lay down beside her. "Then it is better that someone who had more wit reached her first. Although I think I would have rathered see you turned to stone than watch you bleed."

Ganna made a face and shook her head.

"I'm quite content with the way things worked out."

"I didn't think there was anything left in the bottle," Lucy confessed.

"I didn't care," Peter told her. "We'd have found a fireflower to milk if it hadn't worked."

Ganna laughed. "Hard you would have searched. Your confidence would have faded long ere you found one. For those are among the rarest of herbs in this land."

"Your faith is great, King Peter. Doubt him not, Ganna."

Now the beast rose, his expression almost light. "I must go. There are others who will need a word or some help. I'm going to send Barius in. We've been remiss in making him wait and wonder."

"I'll get up," Ganna said. Peter didn't let her tax herself. He lifted her beneath her elbows and steadied her against him-whether in truth she needed it or not. He snugged her beside him as they walked to the entrance of the tent.

There Barius took her face in his great, rough hands and bent to kiss her full on the mouth. "I feared for you," he told her when he lifted his face from hers. "The great Aslan wouldn't let me seek out the healer for you until he deemed all others had been cared for."

"It would have been selfish, Barius," Aslan objected. "What right had we to beg ours be healed first?"

Barius only made a disbelieving face and continued to rub his thumbs along Ganna's cheek bones.

"I have to agree with Barius this time, Aslan," Peter said. The centaur dropped one hand to reach out for the human's, locking his hand around Peter's elbow in the custom of his race. It was a gesture with many meanings, especially used when words won't convey enough of what one is feeling. Peter squeezed back, even as he kept one arm at Ganna's waist.

"Well, we're wasting daylight," Aslan said. His voice was happy and his roar a resounding shout of joy.


End file.
